


good morning

by angryjane



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bottom Simon, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, Fluff, Fluffy Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, Grinding, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Making Out, Mild Sexual Content, Morning Cuddles, Morning Sex, Mornings, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 11:45:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19376059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angryjane/pseuds/angryjane
Summary: Simon and Baz have a sleepy morning, and make out.





	good morning

**Author's Note:**

> i'm really trying here with the intimacy thing, i swear!!!!

Snow’s still asleep when I wake up. He’s got an arm tucked around me, obnoxiously possessive as he is (I love it), and he’s got his chin on my chest, curls brushing my chin as he breathes softly. Snow snores sometimes, and it used to bother me, but now it’s just comforting.  

His fingers tighten around my hip as he shifts a little in his sleep, making a quiet “nng” as he buries his head further into my neck. His skin is warm where it touches mine and I smile a little—only because he isn’t looking. 

Outside, behind the foggy plexiglass of Fiona’s shitty windows, it’s bright out, though the curtains are drawn. The window, to my dismay, is open—Simon must have done that in the night—and the breeze pushes the cheap fabric around in the dust settled on the floor. No matter how hard I try to clean this place, it’s a continuous mess.  

We’re in my room, but the door’s open and I can hear Fiona banging around in the kitchen, probably making shitty instant coffee- she drinks the stuff black, the monster—and I want to close it. I want to stay here alone with Simon forever.  

He looks peaceful like this, no confusion wrinkling his rugged features, no fear, no anger, just the little trail of drool slipping from his parted lips. (Mouth breather!)  

I glance at the digital clock by my bedside; it’s nearly noon. Simon is usually up by now, crashing around and waking me up. I can't remember the last time I woke up before him. Surely not since first year, when I’d been determined to be better than him at that too. I don’t know what to do with myself other than indulge in just observing this boy. 

The only part of him that’s cold now is his nose—it's perpetually freezing and red, since he refuses to wear a coat, something I’ll never understand—and the rest of him is burning, simmering where we meet. I don’t mind, of course; he’s like my own personal heater. My own extremely stupid, extremely attractive heater.  

Since Christmas, when he’d nearly singed it all off, Simon’s hair is getting longer and curlier. It kind of bounces when he walks—one time, Penny spelled it to make sounds like a bell every time he moved, and he’d been cross for a week. Little ringlets, and jumpy springs-- that’s how it falls around him. It sounds sappy, even to me, but I’d like to think it makes a nice halo, and paired with the wings he looks like a proper angel.  

He’s always been the golden boy, after all, so I shouldn’t really be surprised.  

Bunce sometimes calls him “Goldilocks”; he doesn’t like that one either. I call him love or darling, or Simon when we’re being soft. It feels like I’m always being soft, though I can’t say I mind.  

My father would throttle me if he heard any of this.  

Snow shifts, then, and sighs against my collarbone. His breath is warm like the rest of him, and smells like cinnamon and morning breath. Simon always smells like cinnamon, and vanilla and salt. And of course, of his sweet blood singing in his veins, but that’s neither here nor there; Simon always smells like a five-course meal, the kind he’d devour in an instant at the start-of-term dinners every year.  

From here I can see his smooth back, like a golden beach in the sun; I guess that’d make me the sea. Every night, without fail, Simon sleeps shirtless, much to my dismay. (Not because I don’t want to see him shirtless, mind you, but because I really, really,  _do._ ) 

“Baz?” Snow is slow in the morning—slower than usual, that is—and he rolls a little on my stomach, knees hitting my calves when he curls into himself. “Is so bright.” 

“How observant of you, love.” It’s not the sneer I hoped it to be. It comes out soft, loving, “You’ll also notice it’s well past breakfast.”  

“But I’m hungry,” He mutters, and I roll my eyes. 

“You’re always hungry, doll.” 

“So?” He blinks his eyes back closed, sighing again. “I don’t wanna move.” 

“Then it looks like you’re out of luck for breakfast.” 

He groans, and looks back up at me. He’d got his eyebrows drawn in those comical puppy eyes of his. 

“No, Snow.”  

“Please, Baz?” He leans up and kisses my chin, “Please,  _darling?”_  

 _Well fuck._  

“I hate you,“ I lie, as I begin to disentangle myself from him, but he wraps his arms around me tighter and I pause. “Love, I can’t get you breakfast if I can’t get up.” 

“But I don’t want to let go.” He huffs, and I smile. 

“You numpty, you have to let go. It’s me or scones.” 

“Don’t make me choose,” He sighs, and his eyes are drooping closed again. I think he might fall back to sleep, but he opens them after a second. “But I choose you. Food can wait.” 

I sputter at that. “I’ve known you for an insufferable nine years, Simon, and I’ve never seen you once turn down food.” 

“Ha!” He sits up abruptly, forehead knocking my nose, “You called me Simon,” It’s a sing-song when he says it, and I roll my eyes but don’t deny it. We're past that, I think. He knows me too well.  

He smirks, then, and it looks both extremely ridiculous and extremely attractive, the dolt. I lean up a little to kiss him, and he obliges. He’s soft, compliant in the mornings, not the pushing, fighting insistence he usually kisses me with. His lips are chapped, and his breath is horrid, but I’m kissing Simon Snow, so I don’t mind. 

He pulls back and slides a hand up to my face, fingers tapping my chin in some odd rhythm I don’t bother to follow. A thumb comes up against my lips and slides across them, back, forth, back again. I nip at it and he giggles, light and airy, and I think I could fly. Just take off into the starts right now, high on that laugh.  

“Vampire,” He accuses, and I shrug—a nasty habit I’ve picked up from this damn boy.  

“Bite me.” I hiss back, and he laughs again, leaning in and taking my lower lip between his teeth. He sucks on it a little, then pulls back and smiles at me all innocently, like he doesn’t know what he’s doing to me. He most definitely does. 

“Crowley, Snow,” I say, bringing my arms up and around his waist. He’s still sitting on me, legs splayed on either side of my hips, “Come on.” 

“You called me Simon before.”  

“No I didn’t,” I whisper, and then I kiss him. My hands come up to tangle in the soft, soft hair, and his hand trails against the stubble on my cheeks, digging at the flesh just under my jaw. I gasp; my neck’s always been sensitive, and he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue in my mouth, pushing against my own.  

I feel his thighs straining over me and he pushes his hips down into me, letting out a soft moan. I push up to meet him, grinding against his hip, and he bite softly on my lip again. I groan at that, and feel him smirk against me. Simon says I have a bite kink; he’s probably right. Comes with the vampire territory though, doesn’t it? 

I drag one hand from his hair and down his back, goosebumps raising under my trailing fingers. He shudders against me as I pull my nails across his rips, and twist gently at his nipple. He bucks a little at that, and I laugh against him. He whines into me, and I roll so I’m on top of him now, his legs wrapping tightly around my lower back.  

“Baz,” He pants, and I shut him up with another kiss, then bring my lips down to his chin, his jaw, the sweet spot right below his ear, where his skull meets his neck—that glorious neck—nibbling a moment at his ear lobe. His hands tighten around my back, nails digging in sweetly as he keens.  

“Love,” I parrot back, and he sighs. I bring my teeth lightly against the vein in his neck and scrape them down, down, ever so carefully down into his collarbones, where I bite. My fangs haven’t popped yet, but they will soon, and I want to get my mouth on him as much as I can before they do.  

He rocks against me, thrusting those sinful hips up into mine, and I put a hand on his navel to keep him down. I like it like this: me on top of him, in control. I know he likes it too, he’s told me before. He likes me in charge.  

“Now, now, Snow.” I tease, “Good things come to those who wait.” 

“ _Baz,”_ He whines, and I smirk at him again. He’s flushed up all pretty, freckles and moles dancing across his pink skin like stars, and I peck at each one, still holding him down. His nails claw harder into my back. 

I’m about to actually get started when there’s a knock on the open door, and someone clears their throat. I turn to see Fiona in the doorway, hip leaning into the frame and eyes narrowed conspiratorially.  

“I’m going out, boys.” She tells us, turning her nose up haughtily and turning on her heel, “The place is yours. Don’t fuck it up too much.” 

Then she’s gone, and Simon and I stare at one another a moment, breathing heavily. Then Simon giggles a little, and I smile fondly down at him, dropping a kiss on the tip of his nose.  

“Where were we?”  

**Author's Note:**

> comments would be AMAZING, esp suggestions on how to improve my writing of the ~steamy~ stuff!!!!
> 
> have a lovely dayyyyyyy


End file.
